


Another Step

by R_Clearwater



Series: Another Step [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Deals with panic attacks, Definitely Post-Season 1 for TOS, Gen, M/M, Prime Directive? What Prime Directive?, Season 2 for POI, Should give a heads-up now: it's definitely pre-slash for Rinch, Slight Cursing, Starts off gloomy but there's hope, That Guardian of Forever though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:40:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24245929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Clearwater/pseuds/R_Clearwater
Summary: It was only supposed to be a brief exploration of communications in the 21st century.That was before Nyota Uhura saw a man in the midst of a panic attack, frozen in the center of the street with his faithful Belgian Malinois.After that, all bets were off.(Or, aMasqueradetwist, if you will.)
Relationships: Harold Finch & John Reese, Harold Finch/John Reese, Nyota Uhura & Harold Finch
Series: Another Step [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1917217
Comments: 12
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because, even though the world can be a scary place sometimes, we don't have to be afraid. Or, rather, we can acknowledge that fear and still take a step forward.

He needed to leave.

Bear was waiting for him, the Belgian Malinois practically grinning at the thought of going outside. The canine had been neglected in that regard ever since the kidnapping came to a close –– an unfortunate, unintentional side effect of the incident.

_Oh. So, we’re calling it “the incident” now?_

Mr. Reese was waiting for him. Needed him almost as much as Harold needed to escape. The obligatory palpitations that trailed through his body, the familiar throbbing down his right side (a throbbing that scorched his nerves with every misstep), the painfully heightened awareness that flung itself far past paranoia, everything needed an escape.

And he couldn’t take another step.

(Except, he had to keep going. Because John _needed_ him.)

“So, we’ll just––” He’d grown up with dictionaries, befriended many a thesaurus. Kept a tight circle of literary classics over the years, always expanding the collection but never failing to revisit old friends. And he couldn’t say these stupid, simple words without stumbling. “We’ll just go outside.”

This would be difficult. Hell, his hands couldn’t stop gripping the leash, as though the damn thing would give him a release. That he was keeping a consistent pace in this venture, that he had actually made it onto the stairs, was a miracle. 

(His tolerance for pain, his ability to detach, it all abandoned him when Samantha Groves had murdered Alicia Corwin.)

How had they made it onto the sidewalk? 

When had he officially stepped outside? 

Yes, the image of Miss Groves –– he would not dare to call her by that _other_ name –– coyly staring up at him had triggered this nauseating reaction to the world. And, yes, this was the first time he was pushing himself to leave the library in the middle of a case, daring to tread out into the field. There was still no logical reason to lose track of his surroundings, to let his faculties diminish to such an extent! 

Mr. Reese would’ve been so disappointed and–– and Harold shouldn’t have stopped on the street. Shouldn’t have observed, petrified, as the world swirled around him, honks and sirens incessantly careening through his equilibrium. His movements became mechanical, stuttering, stopping. He was swathed in yellow and white streaks, vehicles hurling air around him as the world kept swirling and swirling and––

“How about we try taking another step?” Her voice was warm, breaching through his panic like a virus. But, harmless. Helpful, in fact. Harold didn’t know it, couldn’t feel a thing, but that warmth was guiding him back onto the pavement. Snippets of Dutch commands came into focus, gentle yet firm.

(They didn’t originate from him.)

That the woman braved New York traffic for him should’ve floored Harold. 

As it was, the recluse could only gasp for air and let her take him back to safety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the essential plot worked out for this as well as most of the writing (it will be a short story, especially compared to "Relevance" and the likes). However, things are a little chaotic over here, so it'll be a few days before the next update. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed that little taste, and good luck wherever you are in the world!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ready to garner more perspective today? We’re definitely going to have more TOS as well as POI viewpoints today (and, yes, there will be multiple POVs today –– not just Harold's). 
> 
> Enjoy!

She’d politely waited for him to finish “calling” his associate –– needless to say, Harold didn’t need the woman to think him crazy. Hence, why he was holding up his phone as though he didn’t have an earpiece (and feeling utterly ridiculous the longer this dragged out).

“Mr. Reese,” Her presence kept him outside, much as he would’ve preferred to have bolted back into the library. But Midwestern manners and common decency dictated he couldn’t ignore the woman who’d risked her life for him. “I seem to be having a bit of a––” The words were incessant, refusing to budge, forcing him to shove them through a heavy breath, “A complication.”

Harold could hear John’s static spike with concern. 

“I can still make it,” At least, he hoped he could make it. “But, I am bringing a friend.”

_“‘A friend’?”_

The man weakly gave a shrug, unable to explain the last five minutes. “Someone who has proven to be of great assistance.”

_“Okay.”_

Mr. Reese didn’t ask for details, something that honestly gave him relief. Yes, it was dangerous and unusual for him to be this trusting. But he somehow knew it would be fine. Moreover, she had requested to walk him wherever he needed to go and that was it, stating that her project could wait until he made it to his friends.

Whatever else came out of this, he wasn’t obligated to explain anything to her. And she had only requested to escort him, not learn his backstory.

(Except there was an anxious part of him who needed to know everything about her. His instinct may have trusted her, but these last few weeks had proven instinct to be… misguided, on occasion.)

“So, what exactly is it that you do?” The recluse couldn’t believe he was making small-talk with the woman, as though he hadn’t been on the verge of his sixth panic attack this week. But he needed to gather more information and he currently lacked the capacity for anything other than supposed “chit-chat”.

“I study communications.” It was brief, but friendly. Simple, but unassuming. “And yourself?”

He somehow sensed a kindred spirit in her. One that helped to ease his mind. It helped that he could Mr. Reese’s voice reached out to Sofia, coaxing her away from her grief for just a few seconds. (John’s voice always calmed him down these days, helping Harold breathe––)

He needed to answer the question. If he delayed a verbal response now, she’d undoubtedly become more curious and persist in this interrogation, “A little of this, a little of that.” 

Her smile knowingly deepened.

“Anything in particular?” 

Harold should’ve known the woman would be more interested than the average person –– she’d gone out of her way to stop him from permanently fixing himself to the pavement.

“Usually computers.” He eventually confessed, finding that safe enough to admit. In this day and age, who wasn’t involved with technology?

“Understood.” But she didn't look to be insulted by his continued cryptic remarks. “Got a name to go with that work?”

“Harold. But,” So much for his Midwestern upbringing. As well as his ability to navigate a conversation with _out_ giving away personal information. “Where are my manners? What’s _your_ name?”

“Nyota.” Uhura paused at the first name, 23rd century etiquette demanding she give a full name. But she'd already pushed it once with the Prime Directive today. She didn’t need to cause any issues with a last name that always brought attention. Seeing as how Smith was too obvious not to be fake and most of the names coming to mind reeked of intrigue, “Nyota Scott.”

(And, no, she'd never imagined a day where that might be her legal name. Never.)

And because the Starfleet officer couldn’t help it (curiosity and embarrassment mixed so well together when it came to speeding things along), “You wouldn’t happen to have a last name, Harold?” 

Frankly, she was normally all for respecting people’s wishes. Equally clear was the fact that he had a big wish for privacy. But there’d been too many times people flitted through her life, dissipating because she never caught the facets of their identity. And she doubted she would ever forget this incident or the man, but it never hurt to ask. To solidify the encounter with another detail.

“Harold Fi–– Harold Fernbird.”

Trained ears knew that wasn’t the original diphthong he’d been going for, that she wasn’t receiving all the facts. But seeing as how she carried her own secrets, she didn’t need to pry too much into his. 

_._

When the interrogation began, Harold was close to drawing up his boundaries and pushing the woman firmly away. Trust or no, he remembered the last time he’d fallen for someone’s act and what exactly came out of it. 

So, while he may still be entrenched in shock he wasn’t an idiot. 

Luckily, Miss Scott seemed perfectly understanding. 

_._

Nyota found it was easy to engage this man in conversation. She might’ve described him as fascinating, if she could’ve kept a straight face as she did so. 

Of course, this wasn’t exactly what she had in mind when it came to studying the communication culture of the early 21st century. But she’d rather save someone from being run over than spend her day aimlessly wandering around.

“So, what brings you to this part of the city?” Perhaps there was an event of some kind, a social gathering she could blend into and observe. That would certainly allow her to witness and record some methods of communication, see how the humans of the time interacted with one another. 

“A party.” The answer was dryly spoken, handed over alongside cringing eyebrows and disdainful blues eyes.

(That straight face was proving to be _really_ difficult to maintain.)

Nyota couldn’t help the snort that escaped, not thinking Harold to be a partier, exactly. She could see him getting along splendidly with Mr. Spock and some of the other science officers. He would probably even be friends with Scotty. Probably not Bones, but maybe Captain Kirk. Still, he didn’t strike her as the type to go out for drinks, to willingly socialize.

(Okay. She couldn’t hold in proper laughter anymore, not when he was looking at her like that.)

His continued response to her amusement was the first real sign of existence, life finally cracking back into the lines of his face. The distress that had buried itself in his demeanor gave way as that acerbic eyebrow raised once more, provoking another set of snickers.

“Sorry.” The lieutenant eventually mustered, recognizing it was in bad taste to tease. 

“Not at all,” Harold calmly responded. The exchange felt familiar, normal even. At least, it had felt normal until a horn sounded –– startling him back down the rabbit hole that terror brought. A rabbit hole she was all too familiar with, given her occupation. 

One she’d lost many good friends to over the years.

Quickly trying to bring the man back to an even-keel, Uhura scanned her thoughts for any sort of response. When nothing eloquent came to her mind, “It's just, well, you don’t seem like the type to party.”

His panic barely budged, eyes scouring their surroundings even as he sent her another pointed look, “It’s a special occasion.”

“I’m sure.”

Had she not spent a great deal of time working in close proximity with someone of Vulcan descent, Nyota might’ve missed that almost trivial quirk of his lips, the discreet hints of emotion. But she did see it, and she knew that meant they could keep going. 

  
  


_._

Fusco's a decent replacement, someone he’d called on just in case Finch couldn’t make it. But Finch's Finch. And this is less about needing someone who could protect Sofia and more about needing his partner out in the field. Needing the man to take another step back toward the future despite the unknown.

(Honestly? He really needs his friend back.)

So John’s relieved to see Finch come into sight at the last second, even if the man looks twice as pale as normal. He can see the tension in his friend’s body a mile away, and can only thank the stranger who’s brought Finch back to him. That she seems to be making some kind of a difference, that his friend is even talking to her in the first place, all means a lot. 

There’s a tinge of jealousy, because he hasn’t been able to reach Finch throughout any of this. But then there’s a moment where Harold looks at him and he can see everything. Relief for finally catching sight of John, anxiety from being outside, determination to keep going.

(The world stops spinning for them both, just a for a second. And he forgets why they're here.)

And then Fusco's snapping off something stupid and Reese remembers everything.

Luckily, he doesn’t need an excuse to talk to Finch alone. Sofia immediately recognizes that this has to be that friend he’d spoken of, easily wheedling the stranger and Fusco into chatting as the pair approach each other. 

“How was the walk?” It’s stupid but he can’t actually bring himself to say the words, _do you need to stop?_

“Tolerable. Miss Scott,” John's relieved that those two are on formal terms (and proceeds to shove said relief far away). “Has proven to be excellent company.”

“Old friend, Finch?” He thought he knew all of the players in Finch’s life by this point, a little disappointed this isn’t the case.

“Just met her today, Mr. Reese.” 

They need to drop the subject of Miss Scott. It’ll make him unexplainably jealous, something he doesn’t understand, and spoil the fact that Harold is here. In front of him. Trembling a little every time a car gets too close to the curb (he’ll have to find out why later, though he has his guesses), but he’s here. Not holed away in the library, not nesting out in some safe house. Here.

(The _with him_ part will never be spoken.)

“I called Fusco in case,” _In case you couldn’t do this. In case you wanted to go back._ “In case we needed back-up.”

_(I really don’t want you to go back.)_

“There’s no purpose in my returning to the library now.” That word tells John everything. Blue eyes may be welling up, but color is returning. Breath is finally easing into something steady, even if it’s not quite there just yet.

(John doesn’t understand it, but he realizes there’s nothing to be jealous of.)

Once they figure out the new plan –– really, it's only about adding Fusco to the mix –– it’s easy enough to part ways. Or, at least, it’s easy to pretend it’s easy. Actually parting isn’t easy in the slightest. 

(Except, even now, there's a deviation.)

“If we’re doing this, she’s coming with!” 

Apparently, Sofia's taken a liking to that stranger. Enough to want to have her come along, even though John isn’t convinced it's a good idea. He doubts the woman has any training in combat should the need arise, and she _i_ _s_ a stranger. 

(Really. At some point he's gonna have to find out her name.)

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude!”

“You wanted to study some communications, right?” Fusco's getting involved. Even Finch looks to be interested in this woman’s continued involvement, though the recluse isn’t gonna say it any time soon.

( _Yeah. Absolutely_ **_no_ ** _need for jealousy. Yeah, right._ ) 

“Well, yes, but––”

“Then this is the place.” The cop informs her. “If you hate it, you can leave. But I doubt you're gonna hate it.”

Somehow, Lionel’s words reach her. Enough to make the woman pause, glancing at Harold once again before agreeing to tag along. John forces himself to look away, not wanting to see his friend’s response. 

But he can’t leave, not yet. He can disappear from sight, old training coming back to the forefront. However, he wants (needs) to make sure Finch really is all right, that this isn’t all one huge mistake.

“You know, you don’t write, you don’t call. I mean, I’m a big guy, but I’m pretty sensitive.” The vigilante rolls his eyes as he catches this light barb in the distance, knowing what Lionel’s trying to say.

“It’s good to see you, too, Detective.”

John holds back a smile at the quiet authenticity, watching as Finch turns away from his companions –– blue orbs peering back toward where they’d first seen each other. And though the recluse pivots back to the others in seconds, there’s something there. Something he’s only seen in a train station, when a hazy gaze found him at last. There had been a groggy protest, a slurred rationality back then that told him how little Finch values his life. 

But there had been a relief John had never witnessed before.

One he wants to see every day, one he can’t believe he’s the cause of.

(And it’s almost enough to get him to go back.)

_._

He’d been worried about Glasses ever since the guy walked into sight. He's still worried about Glasses, even now that they’ve made it to Sofia’s party. But with Uhura around –– he can't explain it, but the nickname fits the woman perfectly –– it's easier to trust their mutual friend will be fine. 

Of course, they still have a mission to do. Finch may be loitering outside, not able to cope with all the people in the room, but they do have a mission. So, he keeps watch from a distance, keeping an eye on things as Sofia continues to mingle. He even notices Uhura going off to escape the party and step outside. She says it was for fresh air, but he knows why she's really stepping out.

He can’t help but feel grateful someone other than Dark, Tall, and Scary can be there for Glasses.

(Makes a difference he’ll never admit.)

_._

He wishes he were back in the library, able to assist the case. Not here, glued to these brick walls, caught in all this ridiculous panic. It’d happened again, the careening and the swirling and the nausea that hurled him back toward the outside world. And he _hated_ that this is what he’s been reduced to.

“Nice night,” Harold should’ve known she wouldn’t have left him alone. 

“It’s tolerable, I suppose.” Couldn’t she just leave him alone? Couldn’t they all just leave him alone?

(Except, maybe not Jo––)

“Wanna talk about it?” 

Harold gives another pointed stare, before remembering that she did help save his life earlier and he’s not doing his best to respect that. But, really, if she expects eloquence she should try the diplomats inside. “Not really.”

“That’s all right.” 

Somehow, he believes her. 

They continue to stand in silence. Well, as silent as the city could be. But it’s quieter here than those streets from before and that’s sufficient.

“Can I share something with you, Harold?”

The recluse doesn’t really know if he was up to it. But where there isn’t panic, there’s an old numbness he’s forgotten about. Something that makes it difficult to care about others, about life in general.

“All right.” Maybe he wouldn’t care about what she has to say. Maybe it'll only scare him, give him pause, convince him this was all a terrible idea.

But she’d helped him today. 

The least he can do is listen.

Miss Scott didn’t talk for a minute. Didn’t talk for a few minutes, actually. But when she did, it’d been to tell him about a time where she felt lost. Or, rather, when it seemed that life had disappeared, when there was nothing surrounding her but a darkness that chilled her in ways she couldn’t possibly explain.

She hadn’t been alone, not really. But when her world had gone away, when that darkness surrounded her, it hadn’t really mattered that colleagues were around. It didn’t even matter that, in the grand scheme of life, that darkness had only been around for a few minutes. Her world had gone away for maybe ten minutes, tops, and she remained haunted by it.

When the darkness had ended, grief persisted. Her friends hadn’t recovered all that quickly, despite what they said. She herself hadn’t really bounced back, if she was being honest. But they had jobs to do, and she couldn’t get stuck in the fact that her world temporarily vanished into nothing. She needed to go moving, to be useful, to give intentionality to her work and leave all that behind.

Except, some days all she could think about was that darkness.

Which was why she came here today. Decided to take this communications assignment and experience city life for a few hours.

(He wants to ask why, but he can’t bring himself to do anything other than listen.)

When she finishes her story, she gives one last confession: it’s nicer to just stay outside and would he be agreeable to remaining here for just a few more minutes?

He has no protests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed that!
> 
> In any case, as always, I wish you good luck wherever you are and hope you have a lovely day !


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last update for this sweet little story –– enjoy!

Nyota can’t believe she’s just revealed everything to Harold. 

She managed to mask the incident with the Guardian of Forever easily enough –– there’s no need to tell him the world literally disappeared, even if it had been brief. But this isn’t something she’s shared with anyone, not even Scotty. They’d had maybe one drink to commemorate the fact that everyone made it out alive, but nothing more. This is the first time she’s ever given her side of the story away, her perspective.

(And her fears.)

Still, she can’t regret it. The whole thing’s been years old by this point, an early mission in the her career on the _Enterprise._ It doesn’t even matter that––

“Sofia?”

Why is that young lady sneaking off alone? Nyota knows grief can make people do the strangest things, but the Brazilian seemed smart enough not to wander outside the embassy unprotected.

With her mind calculating the probable outcomes (she really needs to spend less time with Mr. Spock) it becomes clear that the only way to handle this is to go after the young lady. She feels grateful she’d thought to bring both a tricorder _and_ a phaser, having stowed both away in a purse large enough to readily conceal them. 

(So much for the Prime Directive.)

“Stay behind, Harold.” She warns him, a hand poised for action as her heart races into this new mission. If this is an innocent mistake, she’ll apologize for prematurely shooing him away. If it’s not, she doesn’t want him getting caught in the crossfire. 

“Whatever you think is going on, I must caution you––”

“No, you don’t.” All Starfleet officers go through standard self-defense tactics and are trained for hand-to-hand combat. “I know what I’m doing.”

“I really have to insist––” They’re wasting precious time and Sofia’s already fading from sight. If this is something nefarious, she needs to get moving and he needs to go.

“Harold. We don’t have time for this.” Reeling in patience one last time, “I need you to find Detective Fusco and update him on the situation. Then, I need you to stay out of danger: there’s no need for a civili–– for you to be in harm’s way.”

She knows he’s snatched that tidbit up, understands there are questions. She maintains the fact that it’s paramount he remain safe, firmly guiding him back toward the party. She won’t let her new friend risk himself, not when he has other things to recover from. Besides, it’s her mission to get entangled with the unknown, not his. 

Only when Nyota knows Harold is out of sight does she leap into action.

With a hand lunging into her purse, not willing to risk bringing the phaser out just yet, she can only imagine the sight she makes as she hurries down the streets. But it doesn’t matter: even if her century’s technology were visible, her gut tells her that it’s more important to keep Sofia safe than do nothing. 

She almost loses the Brazilian to the crowds –– “almost” being the key word. Nevertheless, her training only helps so much: Nyota rounds the corner just in time to see the young woman be forcibly escorted away, a prisoner to the weapons of the 21st century.

“Sofia!” 

It’s too late. Sofia’s long out of earshot, along with whoever is abducting her.

“Are we too late?”

“Harold,” She snaps at him, angry at herself for being too late and at him for following her into danger. “What did I tell you about getting Detective Fusco?”

“I’ve alerted our friend to the change in plan. He’ll be joining us momentarily.” The recluse eyes her purse suspiciously, reminding the woman that she’s still gripping onto her phaser. She dropped her clutch on it and the bag. “However, Detective Fusco is not my main concern at the moment.”

“Really?”

“I must insist you tell me who you really are.”

_Please, don’t do this._ “Just a woman who knows better than to leave herself defenseless.”

He doesn’t buy it, not entirely. 

But they’re running out of time. If they want to save Sofia from whatever’s going on, they need to keep moving. So he can take her at her word or they can let an innocent woman face an unknown danger.

_._

Harold thought Nyota Scott an interesting character from the moment she’d guided him away from that street. He hadn’t realized just how interesting she truly was until now.

Upon seeing Sofia's seconds away from getting shot, Miss Scott bolts the remaining distance and slams her purse against the window –– the glass shattering from something heavy inside. She then holds her bag up, the shape of what has to be a gun revealing itself even as the weapon remains ensconced inside the accessory.

Unfortunately, Harold and Lionel are too far to hear the exchange between Miss Scott and Monty (an exchange he will wonder about for _years_ ). They can only watch as Sofia raced out of the car, looking for any sort of escape.

“Sofia! We’re over here!” The detective’s shout immediately attracts everyone’s attention. But it doesn’t stop anything. They have to make it to the car if they’re going to save the situation.

Detective Fusco picks up speed. Sofia stumbles forward, toward safety. All Harold can think is how they’re going to be too late, he’s always going to be too late––

The Brazilian’s approach toward them is what blocks the view. All that is heard is the sound of a gunshot and a scream. Harold also thinks he sees a flash of something. It dissipates long before he can confirm anything. Had to have been a headlight from a passing car.

(He'll never really believe that to be the case.)

Opening his eyes, Harold realizes Sofia had been the one to scream but she’s unharmed. She's in shock, pure and simple. As for Miss Scott, she’s stowing something away –– her gun, no doubt. 

_Not_ that he was going to say as such. 

In regards to Monty, the man is unconscious. Something that remains the case even as Detective Carter slams her vehicle into his, sending the man out of the car and straight into the pavement. Harold winces at the scene, not wanting to imagine the pain the man has to be in. Crashing into the ground does little to wake him, judging from his motionless figure. 

The recluse cringes at the thought that they might’ve accidentally killed the man, but the closer he draws the easier it is to see that Monty is breathing. Something that eases his worries, but none of the residual tension.

(But where's the gunshot wound? The blood?)

“Are you hurt?”

“Jo–– Mr. Reese,” It didn’t matter if the day’s events have taken a heavy toll on him. Sofia is their priority. (Besides, the longer his associate stares at him like that, the likelier he’ll wind up––) _Stop that!_ _Focus._ “I––”

“I’m fine.” Truly, in consideration of everything that has transpired today, he is fine. He hasn’t been shot. The only pain he’s had to deal with stems from anxiety and incessant physical exertion, nothing more. Considering the life he’d led only days ago, this is an improvement. “Really.”

His associate doesn’t believe that for one second, knowing he wouldn't intentionally lie but he can omit. Dark eyes continue scanning him for any signs of damage. Harold refrains from shivering at the sensation, not used to be Mr. Reese’s sole focus during a case. Luckily, Sofia saves him from any further interrogation: “Did you find Jack?”

Her question doesn’t stop the man from checking over Harold one last time. “Not yet.” 

_._

Joss Carter is fine with letting John go after the boyfriend and help Sofia come to terms with what’s happened. Problem is, she can’t let the man run off to be a knight in a shining suit, not without a word of advice.

“You need to talk to Finch, John. He only just got back –– he can’t pretend he’s ready to be in the field again.”

(Finch can refrain from saying anything all he likes. She knows the signs of PTSD.)

“Relax, Carter.” The words lack their normal silky reassurances, not that it ever works on her. When she continues to glare at him, her concern unalleviated, “We’ll be going for drinks. Eventually.”

Carter remains deeply unimpressed.

_._

Nyota had only wanted to study Earth for a day. In a sense, she had. Not in the way she’d intended. But she had studied a part of the world and that counted for something. Her report might be horribly cryptic when she got back to the _Enterprise_ , but there would be something to report.

Regardless, there’s one last thing she wants to do. When she hears Detective Carter’s comments toward that Mr. Reese –– really, Nyota _knew_ Harold was pushing himself too much too soon –– she’s reminded of a scene from before. A moment between the two men, back when the pair had been reunited. 

One that gave everything about their relationship away.

Including the fact that the pair were terribly oblivious to reality.

“Well,” Mr. Reese’s gone with Sofia to go take care of whoever is left. Detectives Carter and Fusco are five minutes away from taking care of Monty and giving Harold a lift back to wherever he retreats. Which gives her a little time to impart some last minute words of wisdom and make a graceful exit. She won’t try to matchmake, but she will try to say something. “I think it’s time for me to start heading back.”  
  


“Would you care for a ride?” 

It’s touching to see Harold’s concern flare up, even if there was a wariness behind his features. She has no doubt he saw something from before. But if he saw her phaser in action, his eyes would’ve held a lot more than wariness.

“No, thank you.” Glancing back into her purse, remembering the technology of the day, “I got a text from some friends and they know where I am.” And, remembering what Mr. Reese promised Detective Carter, “We’re gonna go out for drinks.”

Mentioning drinks is something Harold doesn't expect. She can see him tense at the very thought, disdain apparent. But there’s something else, something that only confirms her theory from before.

“I’ve never been one for that lifestyle.” The recluse indifferently confesses, “I’ve never found value in the ceremony.”

(It’s going to be _really_ difficult keeping a straight face the next time she sees Spock.)

“I can get that.” Nyota lightly comments, pleased to see the admission surprise him. “I don’t go out all that often myself.”

That wariness of his returns. “Then why tonight?” 

Luckily, she’s had a fair amount of experience with wariness. “That’s not the purpose behind it. Not for me, at least.”

“Oh? And just what is the ‘purpose’?”

The Starfleet officer recognizes that there’s something about the word “purpose” that triggers him. In other words, she’s treading on thin ice here. But she knows she has to say her bit or she will regret it for years to come.

“For me,” Nyota thinks of a certain engineer, of the one friend she’s always willing to get drinks with, “It’s about the company.” 

When Harold doesn’t seem to get it, she quietly reminds him of a truth that’s haunted her since the Guardian of Forever. “You never know when the world might disappear.”

In that moment, Nyota forgets about Harold. 

For just a few seconds, she can only think of her own Mr. Reese. 

“I see.” 

Blinking back regret, the woman redirects her focus. Her reverie had clutched her long enough she can’t unearth the layers behind his simple response. So she takes a moment to study the scene, to make up for her lapse in focus. A closer look at the man tells her that he’s still scared. He doesn’t trust in her sentiment, probably won’t for a long time. 

But something has shifted.

And if she’s right, it’ll make a difference in the end.

(She won’t be there to see it, but it does.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed that! It was a treat to write.
> 
> And if you’re interested, I have an idea for a follow-up. One where Bones (Dr. Leonard McCoy) ends up in the middle of _All In_. It would be lighter than this and end with Rinch finally sorting out their act because Bones wouldn’t let the pair get away with anything else.


End file.
